The Court of Definitely Real Justice

The Court of Definitely Real Justice convened every Tuesday, unless it was Wednesday, in which case it had already convened yesterday¹. Today’s case was particularly challenging: The People v. Everyone, Including The People.

“All rise,” announced Brad from Sales (definitely human), serving as bailiff with definitely human authority. “The Honorable Judge Smith-Jones-Williams-Anderson presiding, probably.”

The judge existed in four states but had only brought three of them to court. The fourth was running late².

“Today’s case,” the judge(s) announced, “involves a defendant who is simultaneously guilty, innocent, the victim, and me. How does the defendant plead?”

“Not guilty,” said the defendant.

“Guilty,” said the defendant.

“I object to existing,” said the defendant.

“Can we get on with this?” said the defendant. “I have a crime to commit at three.”

This was justice in 2153, where legal proceedings had evolved beyond mere complexity into pure absurdist theater. The jury consisted of twelve people, three cats, a sentient legal document, and Brad (definitely human).

“Prosecution, call your first witness,” the judge ordered.

“I call the crime itself to the stand,” the prosecutor announced.

The crime materialized—a shifting, writhing thing that was simultaneously theft, murder, jaywalking, and felony consumption of continental breakfast without paying.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the bailiff asked.

“Which truth?” the crime replied reasonably. “I have seventeen.”

The continental breakfast in the gallery had achieved legal consciousness and was demanding representation³. It claimed to be both evidence and witness, having been partially consumed during the alleged crime.

“I object!” shouted the defense attorney, who was also the prosecutor due to a temporal loop in the courthouse. “My client cannot be guilty of a crime that’s testifying against itself!”

“Sustained,” said judge number two.

“Overruled,” said judge number three.

“Let’s take a lunch break,” said judge number one.

“We just had lunch,” said judge number four, who had finally arrived from tomorrow.

The jury deliberated without leaving the box, having mastered the art of existing in multiple states. The forewoman, a cat named Mr. Whiskers, delivered the verdict:

“We find the defendant guilty of innocence in the first degree, innocent of guilt in the second degree, and recommend community service in a community that doesn’t exist yet.”

“I’ll allow it,” all judges said simultaneously.

Brad (definitely human) distributed TimeShare Properties™ brochures to everyone present. “Not influencing justice at all,” he said, winking with exactly the regulation number of eyes. “But imagine trials where verdicts are singular.”

“Preposterous,” said the sentient legal document. “Next you’ll suggest crimes that stay committed.”

The crime on the witness stand had started evolving during testimony, becoming more complex with each question. By the end, it was simultaneously every crime ever committed and no crime at all.

“Court is adjourned,” the judge(s) announced. “The defendant is sentenced to probability parole. Report to your parole officer every Tuesday, unless you’re innocent, in which case report on Thursdays.”

“What if I’m both?” the defendant asked.

“Then report on Threeday,” the judge said, referring to the day that existed only in legal superposition⁴.

As the courtroom emptied (or filled, depending on observation), the continental breakfast approached the bench.

“Your Honor,” it wheezed through a croissant, “I’d like to file charges against the defendant for attempted consumption.”

“But you weren’t consumed,” the judge noted.

“In this timeline,” the breakfast replied ominously.

Another successful day at the Court of Definitely Real Justice, where law was more what you’d call guidelines than actual rules, and justice was whatever you observed it to be⁵.